With These Broken Wings
by Bobadoo
Summary: Claire Hayford had never heard of Charming and after meeting SAMCRO, she wished it had stayed that way, but she had no choice. There was nowhere left to turn and no family but him.
1. Claire Hayford

Hello one and all! Sons of Anarchy season 4 is driving me crazy! It has made me want to write more and more stories, hence why this little creation is here. Now, for those of you reading my other story, The Ties That Bind, don't worry, I'm still writing that one. I just really wanted to get this one down.

Special thanks to **DestinyLynn17** for reading this over for me! I really appreciate it!

I own nothing save for Claire, Monica and any parts of the backstory.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

**Claire Hayford**

From the sanctuary of the garage's office, Gemma watched the girl slowly walk down the lot, a messenger bag bouncing off her hip and a small suitcase dragging behind her. She was a scrawny thing, bones sticking out everywhere, and pale. The wind outside might knock her over if it blew any harder. Her shirt was ill-fitting and her shorts were a couple sizes too big, held up by a belt pulled as tight as possible. All in all, she looked like a mess. That was the last thing they needed.

Gemma sighed and sat back in the chair. Maybe if they just ignored her, she would go away. This was not the first stray to come wandering around and unfortunately she would not be the last. A group like SAMCRO had girls seeing dollar signs but if this one thought she was getting anywhere near that, she was insane.

"Who's the skeleton?" asked a thick Scottish accent. Chibs strolled in through the door and took his place by the window, playing with the toothpick in his mouth as he eyed the girl.

"Just another piece of trash," Gemma replied, settling down to work on bills again. They seemed to have multiplied since she last looked. "She'll get bored eventually and leave."

"She looks a little skittish to be a crow eater."

"Maybe but I'm not risking it. I've got enough shit to deal with as it is."

Chibs nodded, his gaze never shifting. "Looks like you won't have to. Juice is walking over to her."

"He's what?" Gemma asked, standing to look out the window. She watched as the Intelligence Officer sauntered over, the girl visibly taking a step back as he approached. The King of Common Sense trying to talk to their wary visitor. She would like to see how this conversation takes off.

The two watched as words were exchanged. The girl still looked cautious but she gave a polite smile, revealing deep dimples in her cheeks. She pointed at something, it looked to be in the direction of the sign, and in turn Juice pointed to the office.

"Jesus Christ," Gemma mumbled as the girl began to make her way over. "Someone should teach you boys to stop thinking with your dicks."

Gemma stormed outside and headed for the girl who had stopped again at the sound of a slamming door. She watched the caution in the girl's eyes increase about tenfold. At least she had that much intelligence, unlike their not so aptly named officer who was receiving a verbal lashing from Chibs as he headed back to the garage.

"Something I can help you with?" Gemma asked coolly, placing her hands on her hips. The girl did not answer at first. Her eyes darted back and forth between Gemma and the last place Juice had been seen. This gave her a moment to study her further.

Her cheeks were a little hollow, making her cheekbones more pronounced. It gave her lips a pouty look. Her auburn hair was thrown into a messy bun and looked like it could use a good brush. The dark circles under her eyes made her appear very tired and just that much more pale.

A loud smack could be heard from the garage.

For the first time, the girl spoke to her, her voice soft and hesitant.

"Is he going to be-"

"He'll be fine," Gemma snapped. "Mind telling me what you're doing here? Mechanics can't fix a car that doesn't exist."

The girl bit her lip and was quiet a moment. Gemma almost thought she would turn around and head back to where she came from. She nearly prayed for it. Anything would have been better than what she was about to tell her.

"I, uh…I'm looking for Clay Morrow. I wasn't sure if this was the place but his name is on the sign and-"

"And what exactly do you want with him?" Gemma asked, taking a step forward. If this little tart wanted a repeat of the Cherry incident, Gemma was more than willing to oblige her.

The girl nearly fell over when Gemma got closer. Skittish might have been an understatement. "I was hoping to keep that between me and him."

Gemma snorted. "Well, I'm his wife. Whatever he knows, I know so I suggest you start sharing."

There was an audible gulp. "Umm…I think he's my father."

Fainting was not in Gemma's nature, and she was not about to start but she could not help but wonder if the pounding of her heart was going to lead her to it. She put a hand to her chest as though keeping her scar from ripping open.

"What?"

"My name is Claire Hayford," the girl started, sounding as though she had memorized these lines for weeks. "Growing up, my mom would always talk about my dad, Clay Morrow, but I could never see him. And…and now that she's…gone, I figured I could find him."

Gemma paid little attention to what she said after her name. Hayford sounded so familiar and she was racking her brain to figure it out. Suddenly, as she looked over Claire one more time, it dawned on her: Monica Hayford, a crow eater well known by the Sons, particularly for her infatuation with the then Vice President. Claire was practically an exact replica, save for her eyes. Monica had deep brown eyes that had crazy written all over them. Her daughter had light blue, a very familiar light blue.

"Holy shit."

* * *

><p>It had been over an hour since Claire had confessed her secret to a woman named Gemma and she was starting to get nervous. Immediately after she had been shoved into what had been referred to as the clubhouse and told to stay put. Always one to do what she was told, Claire had sat down on a barstool and proceeded to examine her surroundings. The building had a very intimidating feel to it but it also looked well worn. Someone called this place home, a kind of person she did not really want to know.<p>

A combination of anxiety and boredom urged Claire to stand and move around. She could not stand sitting still any longer like some caged animal that just wanted to be set free. Though she did have the option and the longer time went by, the more tempting the door looked. Taking a deep breath and closing her eyes, Claire told herself there was no option. She had come this far, there would be no turning back now, not that she had anything to turn back to.

Slipping out of her bag and putting it on the bar, Claire walked over to the wall across from her where several pictures hung for all the world to see. She looked at each one of them, noting they were mug shots, all proudly displayed like a child's drawings on the fridge.

Who were these people?

The door to the clubhouse opened and Claire bolted upright, gasping in surprise. She stared wide eyed at the newcomer. He was an older man with curly black hair and a mean look on his face. He stopped about midway through the entrance and gave her a hard look, fiddling with one of the many rings on his fingers. He wore a leather vest over his clothes. There were several phrases sewn onto it. She could make out "Men of Mayhem," "Sgt. at Arms," and "Sons of Anarchy." None of them seemed friendly in the least bit.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

She felt cornered. "I…um…uh…"

"When a guy kicks you out, you don't just hang around all day for them to come back. You vacate the premise, understand?"

Claire blinked, very confused and upset at his tone of voice. "What?"

The man sighed, shaking his head. He moved over to the bar and poured himself a generous shot of whiskey. "Sweetbutts just never learn," he mumbled, appearing to not care if she heard or not.

"Excuse me?" Claire said, walking toward the bar. She was never an individual who angered quickly, in fact she preferred to avoid confrontation altogether, but she was not about to sit there and let a man she had never met throw insults at her like it was his day job.

"And what's this?" he asked, picking her bag. Claire ran over and snatched it from him before he had the opportunity to do anything to it. She glared at him but he was quite unaffected by the look; she blamed it on the fact that he was probably some sexist pig.

"Look, I don't know who you are and you don't know who I am. Maybe next time you should wait a few minutes before making a complete ass of yourself." Grabbing her suitcase, Claire made her way to the door. Her father could wait until later or at the very least he could meet her in the parking lot.

Just as she reached the door, it opened to reveal a rather flustered looking Gemma.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Out."

"Not happening," Gemma said, grabbing her by the arm and leading her back into the clubhouse. She glanced over at the man and sighed. Claire imagined her putting two and two together. "I take it you met the princess."

"Princess?" They both echoed, looking at Gemma like she was crazy.

The man gave her a long, uncomfortable look and then reverted his gaze back to Gemma. "Would you care to explain?"

"Later, Tig. Right now the two of us need some alone time."

Tig seemed unwilling to leave but after a few moments of looking between the two, he finally went to the door, though not before giving Claire one last look. She had figured on being scared when she met her father, but not in this way. Seeing these people gave her the feeling that the only way she would be getting out was in a body bag. She crossed her arms in an attempt to keep the chill creeping up her spine in check.

As soon as the door was shut, Claire's curiosity unleashed itself. "Who was that? Why was he calling me a…a…sweetbutt? What is this place?"

"Listen princess," Gemma started, turning to her. There was that word again. Every time she said it, her tone of voice was condescending. She had hoped to escape that when she left home. "You butted into our business, not the other way around. We don't have to explain anything to you." As much as Claire hated that fact, she knew Gemma had a point. They did not owe her anything and frankly if she was in their shoes, she would probably be acting the same way, save for the multiple insults and the air of a death threat in her voice.

Gemma took a step back and sighed again. "Look, Clay isn't here."

"It took you an hour to figure that out?" Claire bit her tongue after the icy look she received. Now was probably not the time to make anyone angrier than they already were.

"Yes, it did," Gemma said matter-of-factly. "You're going to have to come back later." Claire could practically hear the intended 'or never,' but said nothing. She looked at her feet, noting the dusty flip flops and worn nail polish, and bit her lip. This certainly was not how she thought it would go. From the picture her mother had painted of him, she thought she would find herself amongst warm, friendly individuals, not the headlines for America's Most Wanted. Maybe it was best that he was not here. Something told her she would not want to meet him now. This was not a life she wanted anything to do with. Still, it hurt.

Looking up again, Claire blinked back the tears and whispered, "Okay." She moved to the door, uncertain of where she would be staying that night. Most of what little money she had was spent on getting herself to California. She never had a plan for after she got there. Her future was a giant ball of nothing.

"Are you staying anywhere?" Gemma asked suddenly, sounding as surprised as Claire felt at her question. She turned to the woman and shook her head. Gemma rolled her eyes. "Jesus, I can't believe I'm doing this. Come with me."

Claire did not question her. She followed Gemma down a hallway in the back, glancing at all the pictures hanging on the walls and stopping briefly at a beautifully displayed motorcycle. She had only a moment to wonder who the man in the picture was before Gemma was calling after her.

Picking up the pace, Claire stopped at the doorway of a room. It definitely had a lived in feel to it but appeared to have been cleaned recently. There was a large bed in the middle with several dressers, a microwave, an attached bathroom and a desk with a TV. Motorcycle memorabilia was scattered throughout as were several bottles of alcohol. Claire gave them a wary look as she stepped through the threshold. Gemma was checking the bed as she did so.

"Good, clean sheets," she mumbled, turning back to Claire. "You can stay here for the night."

For the first time since she had gotten here, Claire genuinely smiled. "Thank you."

"Don't get used to it," Gemma replied as she moved back to the door. "And for Christ's sake, eat something!"

Claire looked down at her tiny frame as the door shut. Food sounded like a very good thing, a luxury even. She wondered if that gave her permission to use the kitchen she had passed by; she certainly did not have much to buy food. Maybe she would ask later.

Leaving her suitcase by one of the dressers and tossing her bag on the bed, Claire observed her surroundings once more. She then proceeded to hide all the bottles in one of the empty drawers she found, handling each one as if it would bite her. After that, she sat down at the side of the bed, leaning her head against the mattress.

Maybe things would be okay, just maybe.

* * *

><p>It had been a long day for Clay Morrow. Shit just seemed to be piling up higher and higher, and he had the feeling it was nowhere near finished. Jax was right when he said it was not easy being king. It was during days like this that he was more than willing to hand off his crown to the Vice President.<p>

After parking his bike, Clay was ready to drown some of the chaotic thoughts in his mind with several shots of some form of alcohol. However, he knew that was not going to happen when he saw his wife making a beeline for him, her heels hitting ground with a harder 'smack' than usual due to her anger. He knew he was in trouble. When the Queen was not happy, well…everyone knew how that adage went. There would be no warm welcomes home today.

"You just couldn't keep it in your pants, could you?"

Clay blinked. "Pardon me?"

"There is a scrawny little thing waiting for you. She claims you're her father."

A loud crashing noise could be heard throughout the lot as Clay, who had been trying to get off his bike at the time, tripped and sent it toppling to the ground. He hardly paid any attention to it, a little more concerned with the words that had just come out of Gemma's mouth.

"What!" he shouted, voice practically echoing. Jax and Opie looked up from their conversation near the garage while a couple of mechanics stepped out to see what was going on. Clay threw his helmet down, pointing his finger at Gemma. "If this is some kind of twisted joke…"

"She looks just like Monica," Gemma replied, not flinching.

Clay was frozen for a moment while he tried to piece it all together. In the end, he was only able to say one word: "Where?"

"Last I saw her, she was in the kitchen."

Turning with no further responses, Clay barreled through the parking lot, ignoring all the curious looks trained on him. With one simple glare, he cleared out all patrons that had gathered in the clubhouse at the time, all except one: the young girl in the kitchen, her back to him, completely unaware of his dominating presence in the building. Right before he approached, Clay put his cut on the bar. Right now, he did not need her getting any ideas.

He stopped in the doorway and watched her a moment. Damn, she really was scrawny. He could probably break her in half if he wanted to and that sandwich she was making looked much bigger than her stomach. She was humming some song to herself, sounding quite content with her situation. If she was here to take advantage of his money, food and home, she had another thing coming. He ran Monica out of town years ago and he had no problem with doing the same with her daughter.

The girl abruptly stopped her movement and Clay tensed up a moment. She turned around slowly and jumped when she finally did see him watching her. He saw her look out to the clubhouse, noting the sudden emptiness of it. She seemed to pale very quickly.

He was hit with the image of Monica then. Gemma was right, she did look just like her. She was obviously taller though, thinner, much more jumpy and, fortunately, she did not ooze crazy out of her every pore. But other than that, he felt he was staring at Monica, until he met her eyes and the light blue they contained.

Oh shit.

"Sorry to scare ya," he said calmly, snapping out the stupor he had found himself in. He stepped into the room and gave it a onceover, as though he had never been in it before, before landing his gaze back on her. Those eyes were killing him.

"It's okay," she replied with a faltering smile, tucking a hair behind her ear. "I, um…was just…Gemma said that I could make some food."

Clay shrugged. "That's fine with me. Whatever she says, goes."

"I got that impression earlier." She watched Clay as he leaned against the wall, obviously wary. He pulled out a cigar and lighter.

"You mind?" he asked, cigar already in mouth. She shook her head. "The name's Tig."

There was a long moment of silence. Clay looked up from lighting his smoke to see her staring at him in a peculiar way. Noticing his look, she blurted out: "Claire. Claire Hayford."

"How old are you, Claire?"

"Nineteen…almost twenty."

Clay struggled to do the math in his head. "What brings you here?"

"I, uh…I'm looking for someone." She kept glancing at her sandwich hungrily.

"Look, Claire, I don't offend easily. You let me smoke, I'll let you eat."

"No, that's alright," she replied, smile looking more at ease. "My mom raised me not to."

He highly doubted that. "You find who you were looking for?"

She was quiet again, staring at the ground a moment. "I'm waiting on them it seems."

Clay nodded, getting the feeling there was a double meaning behind her words. He took this as his queue to exit. Lifting himself off the wall, he made his way over to the door. "Good luck, kid."

He had a lot of thoughts to mull over. She seemed innocent enough, unlike many other girls that had washed into their life over the years, but as President, he had to take everything with a grain of salt. If there was anything he had learned, it was that people always had ulterior motives and the person they presented themselves as was never the entire picture. This girl would be no exception.

"Tig?" her voice called quietly from the kitchen. He turned to face her, forced to look into her blue eyes again. She stood partially out the door, her sandwich on a paper plate. "I know that's not your name…and I understand." She then took off down the hallway, leaving Clay staring at the spot, stupefied.

At this point, he was all but certain she was his daughter. He could not explain why, he just knew. However, if it were not for her looks, he would seriously wonder if Monica was actually her mother.

* * *

><p>There it is! I hope you guys liked it! Thanks for reading! Reviews are most welcome! Happy Halloween!<p> 


	2. The Wings of a Crow

Hello everyone! The response to my new story was overwhelming! You guys are fantastic! Thank you, thank you, thank you! Again, Season 4 is getting crazier and crazier. Cannot wait for this new episode! I also heard it's going to be a 14 episode season. THAT made my day.

Now, quickly I'd like to address something. Concern has been brought up about the age of the OC. I understand that 19 is young but I made her young for specific purposes. This story, I forgot to mention, is taking place in Season 1, so she'll have some growing up to do, so to speak. I'm not justifying anything, I'm just saying.

Anywho, I'd like to glorify two AMAZING authors before I set you guys off on the story. **Torithy** and **Happys Hitwoman**. You guys are fantastic and I wish I could write like you. And everyone else should read their stories. FANTASTIC I tell you.

Okay, enough of that. Here's chapter two.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

**The Wings of a Crow**

Claire had never thought of herself as much more than a nuisance. Her mother's constant condemnations made sure of that. She also saw herself as less than beautiful, ugly as it were. Monica Hayford had always been quick to point out her flaws. She was too thin, too tall, too pale. Her hair was too thick, always frizzed and was the nastiest color, which she always found to be an odd insult considering her mother's was the same. Even now as Claire stared at the fogged over mirror, her mother's voice at long last put to rest, she could still feel the scorn and all she ever saw were the things that were wrong.

But there was one part of her that Monica never hated.

Her light blue eyes had come from Clay Morrow, her father, whatever that had meant. Sometimes her mother would coo over them, calming the raging monster within while other times they would unleash the creature. Monica would become furious. She would throw things, beat the walls, curse both Clay and Claire. Only once did she lay a hand on her but it never happened again. Claire may have not been physically imposing but she still had four inches on her mother. She learned quickly how to fend for herself and how to avoid a hit. Physicality was never something she feared, just everything else.

Claire took a deep breath and smacked herself in the face. She had to stop thinking about it all. That was the past. As horribly drawn out and vicious it had been, it was over now, despite the various marks on her body that wished to tell her otherwise. She supposed it just seemed so surreal. For years she had hoped for a day like this and now she had no idea what to do, had no knowledge of anything but her past.

Wrapping the towel around herself tighter, Claire attempted not to scream when it came to brushing out the seemingly endless knots in her hair. It cascaded well past her shoulders, making it a good twenty minute job. By the time she finished, her hair was starting to dry. Frowning, she stared at the mirror again until she heard a thump in the other room.

Gemma was not so subtly looking through her suitcase when Claire opened the door.

"What are you doing?" Claire asked quietly, hugging the wall.

"Looking for something that actually fits you," Gemma replied. It did not seem to bother her one bit that she had been caught looking through her personal belongings. While she had no attachment to any of the items, Claire did not appreciate the invasion of what little privacy she had. However, before she could find her voice, Gemma spoke again. "Where did you get all this junk?"

Claire shrugged. "My mom, Good Will…people who didn't need them anymore."

Gemma sat up, staring at her a moment. It made Claire uncomfortable. She wished she was wearing something other than a towel that barely made it past her hips.

"These'll have to do then." Gemma tossed a pair of jeans and an old Pink Floyd shirt at her.

All Gemma got in response was a quiet 'okay' as Claire examined her clothing. She could feel her eyes on her, trying to cut through the layers and figure her out. Truth be told, there was not much to look for. Maybe that was why she had such an issue. She was transparent. Instead of cutting through her, they were clawing at the image on the other side.

Out of the corner of her eye, Claire noticed Gemma shift, giving the woman full view of her exposed back. There was no point in hiding it now so she remained still until Gemma's curiosity was satisfied.

Starting midway at each shoulder blade was a tattooed wing, feathers black and bones appearing to be broken. Instead of branching out like a bird about to take off, they dropped lifelessly until her mid-back. She never regretted getting them; she just hated them being seen.

"How'd you get those?" Gemma asked, crossing her arms.

"Favor from a friend," Claire replied nonchalantly. Friend, of course, was hardly the term she would use for it. She had been sixteen at the time. His name was Rob, a sleazy tattoo artist who had been sleeping with her mom. He said he felt bad for keeping her up at night by making her mom scream as loud as she did, adding his creepy, proud of himself smile at the end. For that, he offered to give her a tattoo to make it up to her. Claire never admitted that he kept her awake, because he didn't. She was just not in the mood to tell him she had grown used to the sounds late at night.

"Must have been a hell of a favor," Gemma said, stepping in front of her.

"You could say that."

The look on Rob's face when she showed him the idea was priceless. She might have laughed but that had been long snubbed out of her nature. He had grumbled about it a while but eventually gave in. At the end, he had considered it one of his best works but that did not stop him from seeking a little revenge by making sure she was woken up that night.

"Are they crow's wings?"

Claire looked up at Gemma, a little surprised she got it. "Yeah, umm…mom mentioned them a lot. I guess the idea just stuck."

Gemma nodded, suddenly looking very distant. Claire watched her a moment before she remembered that she was still half naked in the room. She coughed a moment, hoping to get her attention, but of course that did not work.

"Can I…change now?"

The woman seemed to snap back to reality. "Sure. And when you're finished, go to the office in the garage. You're helping me today." Gemma did not wait for a response. The door was shut before Claire could open her mouth.

* * *

><p>"I don't envy you, brother," Bobby stated, staring out over the lot. He and Clay were sitting at the picnic table, each having a smoke while they discussed yesterday's events. Clay, despite never actually drinking that night, had a horrible migraine and kept rubbing his temples. "You sure she's yours?"<p>

Clay sighed. "Positive, unfortunately."

Bobby nodded, thinking it over. "Claire…Clarence. That's pretty messed up."

"You don't know the half of it," Clay replied, tossing the rest of his cigar. He ran his hands through his hair, taking a deep breath; he had no idea what to do with this girl. From what he could tell, she had nowhere else to go and normally that would not have bothered him when he kicked her out the door but she was his flesh and blood. Some part of him did not want to do the deed. He hated it.

"What are you going to do with her?" Bobby asked as though he had read his mind.

"I have no clue. I got too much other shit to deal with."

Just as he finished it, the door to the clubhouse opened and Claire stepped out. Her clothes fit a little better today but it was still obvious they were big on her, making her look impossibly thinner. She gave a polite nod to Bobby, who returned it, and continued on to the office. The two watched her every step of the way.

"You talk to her yet?"

"Last night," Clay replied, standing up. "Told her I was Tig but she saw right through it."

"The girl's smart."

"That's what worries me."

Bobby was silent a moment as he considered Clay's concerns. "You think she's playing us?"

"Maybe. I can't tell yet."

Now it was Gemma's turn to walk outside. She stopped in front of the men, shooting a look in the office's direction before she spoke. "What's the verdict?"

"Afraid the jury's still out," Clay said, staring at the ground.

"So what do you want me to do with her?"

Clay paused. "Get to know her better. Figure out what the hell she wants."

* * *

><p>Claire looked around the office with controlled curiosity. It did not seem to be any different than any other garage she had been to, though the pin ups were new. She was hoping for something, anything that could give her a hint as to who these people were but she supposed that leaving it out in the open for customers to see was not exactly an intelligent thing to do.<p>

She was in the middle of looking at some order that made less sense than Latin when the door to the garage opened. Claire jumped and looked over. It was the man who had spoken to her yesterday. There was no mistaking that haircut or the tattoos that ran on either side of his head. So far he had been the nicest person she had met. He smiled when he walked in, a big, goofy grin that put her at ease. There was so much about him that made it look like he did not belong with these people.

"You're still here," he stated casually, but in a cheerful way. He leaned against the wall, rubbing the grease off his hands with a rag.

"I am," Claire replied, staying right where she was. She watched him clean himself up, noting the other tattoos on his arms. This was some kind of gang she bet. The kind she had seen on the television all the time shooting people and terrorizing places. Though she never thought of them being mechanics in their off time.

"So…" he started, clearly at a loss for words. "You like Pink Floyd?"

Claire looked at him funny until she remembered the shirt she was wearing. "Oh," she looked down at it. "I don't…even know what that is."

"You…you don't?" he asked, his smile slowly fading.

She shrugged. "I couldn't exactly be picky when it came to clothes."

He opened his mouth to say something but then shut it again. They sat in an uncomfortable silence for about a minute or so until someone called from the garage.

"Juice, how long does it take ya to get a set of keys?"

Through the door stepped a man with graying hair, the scars on either side of his face as distinguishable as his accent, which she guessed was Scottish. Claire tried not to make it obvious that she was staring at them, seeing as how his gaze had now landed on her, but her curiosity was a very difficult thing to fight.

"Hello," he said, sounding genial enough but it was clear he knew what she was looking at. There was no doubt in her mind that it was something he did not like.

"Hi." Claire responded quietly, giving a small wave of her hand. She then shifted her gaze to the floor, hoping to find something more interesting to preoccupy it.

"Would ya grab the keys already, Juice? The car ain't goin' ta move itself." She heard a mumbled apology and watched as he shuffled over to the key rack, grabbed a set and went back out to the garage, but not before giving her one last grin. Claire returned the gesture and watched the door a moment after he departed.

"Anythin' I can help ya with?"

Claire looked to him, managing to meet his eyes this time. "Gemma told me to come here, said I'd be helping her."

"That's good," he replied, accent making the word sound funny to her ears. "She could use it." She watched him eye the various stacks of paper that littered the desk, allowing her one more brief look at his scars. For a moment she wondered who could be callous enough to inflict him with something so permanent. Then she remembered the people she was dealing with, the mug shots on the wall. Things such as his scars might be an everyday occurrence. She tried her best to not show that there was a chill creeping up her spine.

"I guess," Claire said, slight frustration evident in her voice, enough to tip him off as to how she felt about the situation.

The Scotsman titled his head to one side, considering her response. "Piece of advice for ya, Claire," he stated. She did not question how he knew her name; she had the feeling gangs gossiped about as much as high school cheerleaders. "Don't cross Gemma. It won't be pretty." Claire decided that was to be taken as literally as possible and that she ought to assume the worst outcome.

Giving a small nod, Claire waited for him to go back to the garage before she sank down in a chair against the wall. She closed her eyes with a sigh and listened to her surroundings for a moment. The steady drone of the air conditioning was occasionally interrupted by the sounds in the garage, mostly a dropping tool or a drill. Sometimes there would be a voice, usually the Scot's. It carried well over a distance.

When the door opened, Claire tried not to jump but her body seemed to have other plans. Upon opening her eyes, she saw Gemma staring down at her, looking like she was trying to figure out what to do. Seems no one had the answer to that question.

"You good with numbers?" Gemma asked, taking a seat behind the desk. She whipped out a pair of reading glasses and began flipping through the papers.

Claire blinked. "Math was my best subject."

"Good to know."

The conversation halted. There was no mention of the other day, Clay or the fact that she was his illegitimate child. In fact, Gemma was now regarding her as nothing more than another piece of furniture. For a few minutes, Claire was fine with waiting. She took it as part of the 'butting into their business' treatment. After all, they really did not have to do anything with her. She was an adult now and Clay had no responsibility. Kicking her out instead of stringing her along would have been better and she thought to voice that opinion until those words of advice drifted through her ears again. Apparently she had not seen Gemma remotely angry. That was how she'd like to keep it.

"Can I ask you something?" Claire blurted out after a while.

Gemma never looked from the computer. "Depends."

When she did not continue, Claire did. "Who are these guys?" She figured it was not too much to assume Gemma knew what she was talking about. The suspicious look she received confirmed it but the answer was certainly not what she was expecting.

"They're mechanics." A straightforward answer from these people was clearly out of the question.

"What else do they do?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

Claire was silent a moment, thinking of a new way to approach the subject, get the answers her curiosity so desperately needed without getting her head taken off. She looked to the window, the blinds open, allowing her to see the lot outside. The row of parked motorcycles caught her attention where they previously had not. She squinted at them as all the little pieces began to fall into place.

The click of the light bulb in her head was so loud, Gemma might have heard it. "They're a motorcycle club."

"So you finally put two and two together, math really is your strong suit." Claire shot Gemma a quick look but the woman was still not paying attention. She wondered what her angle was. That conclusion probably could have been drawn earlier but maybe she had not wanted to come to it. After all, the only motorcycle club she had ever really heard of was the Hell's Angels and their past was colorful to say the least.

She stood then, moving to the doorway to lean against it. The whole area seemed to take on a new look, a new feel, as though she stood at the edge of something, a decision whose weight was far greater now. Whatever she had found herself in was certainly not the world her mother had described to her all those times as a child.

"Care to explain why you slept on the floor last night?" Gemma asked suddenly, breaking Claire from her thoughts. She turned around, her look slightly surprised. "You really think I wouldn't see the pile of sheets on the other side of the bed?" Claire shrugged. Gemma waited a moment. "So?"

What was she supposed to tell her? That she used to have a bed until she came home from school one day to find it mysteriously broken, for reasons never explained or inquired about? That her mattress, probably older than her mother, finally gave out and she tossed it out rather than deal with it? That she had grown so used to sleeping on the hard floor that in the comfort of a bed she would toss and turn, unable to find sleep? There were things people did not need to know about her. One look and it was obvious she had a sob story, elaboration was not necessary. She felt like dirt enough as it was.

"No," she spoke quietly before finding her voice again. "No, I'm not going to tell you."

Claire was not exactly certain how Gemma would react. If history meant anything, it would be with angered words and an air of authority she could choke on. She felt ready if this was the case. After all, if you could survive the drunken rage of Monica Hayford, you could survive anything.

"Then let me take a stab at something," Gemma said, taking off her glasses. "You don't come from money…obviously." The pause was no doubt supposed to hurt. Her hide was thicker than that. "And you've got no one else to turn to, which is why you sought out Daddy dearest."

Claire opened her mouth to counter but was cut off. "Let me finish, princess. You hoped he would feel pity, take you in, give you a home, act like you were the daughter he always had, taking care of you along the way."

She had always been a calm person but after twenty four hours with these people, she had been angry and tempted to lash out twice. Once she had gone through with it, but not here; she knew better than that. It did not make much sense to her though. All her life she had been treated this way. Why should it make a difference now?

"I don't…want to be a burden. I just wanted to know him."

Gemma was not buying it. "You want to tell me that not a single bone in your body was hoping, hell praying to be taken under the wing of your old man?"

Claire opened her mouth again but shut it soon after. She repeated this several more times. There was nothing she could say. Gemma had a point, as unfortunate as it was. All she could do was shake her head. "You _are_ a burden, Claire."

How she hated those words.

With what little pride she had left, Claire stood up. Damn what advice she was given. "If you wanted me gone, you could have just said so. No need to beat me over the head with words I've heard my entire life." Now it was her turn to leave before she could receive a response. And she did just that.

Gemma watched her for a few moments. The tart had nerve and as much as she hated to admit it, she liked that.

* * *

><p>Thanks for reading! Enjoy the rest of your day!<p> 


	3. Rear Your Ugly Head

Hello everyone! Thank you so much for all the reviews and alerts and favorites! It feeds the muse and boy she was hungry this week. Got an extra long chapter for ya'll. Couldn't stop!

Oh, and for anyone who really cares, I have a twitter. Link is on my profile. Is this a shameless attempt to get followers? Probably.

Also…Call of Duty…HOW COULD THEY DO THAT TO ME! I'm still mourning over here! Stab my heart why don't you! I suspect some AU writing in the future…we'll see how this pans out.

Alright, enough ranting, here is chapter three!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

**Rear Your Ugly Head**

Claire nearly ran through the parking lot to the clubhouse. She was blind to everything around her, not that she cared about who may or may not have been watching her. All that mattered to her now was how quickly she could leave. Clearly staying was not in her best interest. Of course, when was anything in her best interest? Never sounded like a good answer.

The clubhouse was empty save for Tig, who was standing at the bar again. Claire stopped before him abruptly, glaring. The look on his face screamed, 'just try me,' and she was very tempted to do so. There were a few words she had in mind but after a while she shook her head and moved on. This man would be a thing of the past in no time. She might as well not make her stay any worse than it was.

Ripping the door open, Claire burst inside and began to toss all her clothes back in the suitcase, not caring how sloppy it was. She was not sure where she would go now. Maybe back home, as much as she hated the thought. The neighbors had always been kind. Perhaps they could help her, at least until she got on her feet.

For a brief moment she considered tidying up the room a bit but she left it as it was, rolling her suitcase out in less than five minutes. Again she paused at the motorcycle, almost feeling drawn to it. It just seemed so out of place in this environment. She guessed they had something in common, her and the bike, as odd as it sounded.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Tig asked as Claire marched past him again. She did not give him so much as a backward glance as she made her way to the door.

"I believe you called it vacating the premise," she called back after opening the door. Thankfully she did not hear his response. She knew there was one. Tig hardly seemed like a man who would let a woman get the last word. It went against his nature, his sexist, barbaric, biker nature.

Claire made it a few feet out the door before a hand grabbed her arm, causing her to freeze immediately. She half expected Tig but the grip seemed much too gentle. She turned around to meet the other Tig, or Clay as she deduced, the man with the same blue eyes and her father. He certainly was a dominating figure, could probably crush her if he wanted. But right now, he seemed warm and welcoming, or perhaps that was just in comparison with Tig.

"Where are you going?" He did not sound angry or concerned, simply inquisitive.

"I don't know," Claire replied, eying his hand. "Somewhere that's not here. It's been made pretty obvious that I'm not wanted."

Clay sighed. "Look, what Gemma did, it was her way of…testing you."

Claire took a step back, slipping out of his grip, clearly confused. "Testing me? Why…why would you have to test me?"

"Because we don't know if we can trust you," he deadpanned, sending a chill up her spine. Her imagination began to put ridiculous scenarios together of what these men did. It ended up looking like a Western on Harleys. After a moment of silence, she heard him sigh again and place his hand on her shoulder. "Come with me."

He brought her over to the picnic table and sat her down. They were both silent a few moments, listening to the commotion in the garage. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was just…strange, like a new sensation that neither knew what to do with.

"What did your, uh…mother tell you about us?" Clay asked, folding his hands together.

Claire took her time responding. "She said you were in a club. She never mentioned the motorcycles though. Actually, I think she was pretty terrified of them. She'd jump every time one would come down the street."

Clay watched her closely as she spoke, noting the subtle changes in her demeanor, the growing distance in her eyes as she remembered. The breeze whipped her hair around her face but she did nothing to stop it, her nervous habit of tucking it behind her ears gone. She was allowing herself to be vulnerable, giving trust in hopes of receiving it. Smart girl indeed.

He could not help but compare her to Monica again. Claire looked so much like her but at the same time, they were nothing alike. Even now, he could sense a maturity about her that Monica never had and she was probably a good ten years younger than her mother had been. She had a good head on her shoulders. He did not want to brag but considering Monica's track record, it was safe to say she got that from him. Claire was young, inexperienced and appeared fragile but there was a clear sense of fortitude about her now. Despite her outward trepidation, she was obviously used to dealing with less than favorable circumstances.

"You were a group of brothers that looked out for one another, loved each other more than some families. To a girl like me, it seemed like a dream come true," Claire continued, oblivious to Clay's dissection of her. "She, uh…she mostly spoke of you though, to the point where I knew it was unhealthy. I…I knew there was something terribly wrong with her. It was obvious really. Sometimes I wonder if I'm like her…or if I'm going to be."

She had gone way off topic. Clay could see the level of distress grow in her eyes. He placed a sympathetic hand on her arm and got her to look him in the eye.

"There ain't nothing wrong with you, kid."

Claire smiled slightly, blinking back unshed tears, and nodded. Now she tucked her hair back as the walls started to build up again. He let it be and looked back over the lot, thoughts troubling him again.

"Clay?" her soft voice inquired after a while. He had never confirmed his name with her, though he had let slide her references to him. It was all but impossible to deny it now but for a moment he hesitated.

"Yeah."

"Is any of it true, what she said?"

He thought about it. Aside from not mentioning a few of the more unsavory details of the club, Monica had pretty much pegged them at the core. Clay tried to ignore his unsatisfied curiosity when it came to what she said about him. That could wait until later.

Clay sighed. "I'm not gonna lie, Claire. Your mother was wrong about a lot of things in life but that description you gave me was dead on. These men here are my brothers, thicker than blood."

Claire nodded. "That's good to know. It really is."

She hopped off the table and walked forward a few paces, leaving her suitcase behind so it was obvious she was not leaving. With her arms crossed and her jaw firmly set, she appeared to be thinking. Looks like they both had some choices to make.

"I'm not a burden, Clay," she said suddenly, shaking her head. "And I don't want to be. Yes, I don't have anywhere to go and I don't have a lot of money, none practically, but I am going to work. I will work until my fingers bleed and I can't even lift my body anymore and I will repay whomever takes me in for everything they've done whether it's you or Gemma or some random person two blocks down. I don't thrive off charity. I am not my mother."

She certainly wasn't.

Clay was amused by her little outburst, evident by the growing smirk on his face. He knew what she said was not about convincing him to help her. It was all about proving she was not a burden. That word struck a chord with her, changing her apprehensive nature into a passionate one in a moment. He was right. She was a tough girl and it was not too farfetched to say he would be proud to call her his daughter.

"I'm sorry," Claire said, snapping Clay from his thoughts. "I didn't mean to-"

"Don't apologize," he replied calmly, motioning to her seat. "Sit down."

She plopped down on the table and watched him, wariness returning. It was like she was awaiting backlash for her actions.

He was quiet for a moment, making sure that what he was about to say was absolutely what he wanted to do.

"I'd like you to stay."

Claire blinked and her jaw dropped open slightly. It took her a few moments to actually say something. "I thought you didn't trust me."

"I'm willing to take a chance."

He did not think she was capable of producing a large smile but Claire certainly proved him wrong. Her face looked about ready to break but she did not seem to mind one bit. But then it faded about as quickly as it appeared.

"What about Gemma?" she asked, eyes darting toward the office.

Clay could not help but laugh. "My Old Lady's part of the reason I made the decision. Whatever you said in there has her convinced you're worth the trouble."

"I'm not going to be trouble, Clay," Claire replied, standing. "I promise you."

With that she took her suitcase and went back into the clubhouse. Clay watched her go, noticing the looks that she and Tig exchanged when he stepped out the door. A low chuckle caught in his throat. This was going to be entertaining.

* * *

><p>Night had fallen and Claire found herself on the roof of the clubhouse. It was a nice spot, she mused, giving her a good look at the small town of Charming. From what she could tell, it certainly lived up to its name. There was a warm quality to it that most of these towns had, her hometown not to be excluded. However, certain people and events had tarnished its good nature. She hoped it would not be the same for this one.<p>

Grabbing the messenger bag she brought with, Claire took out a drawing pad and pencil, laying them flat on her lap. She stared at them a long time, hoping to find some kind of inspiration. Growing up, drawing had been her means of escape. Art teachers had often called her work dark, gritty and concerning. Still they had never said anything about it to anyone else, probably writing it off as a phase that most young adults went through. Most days she could not be seen without her bag full of supplies but as of late she had yet to draw anything. It seemed that after her mother died, her inspiration suffered the same fate.

Sighing, Claire put the objects back and rested her chin in her hands. She had too much to think over anyway. Before he left that night, promising she would not stay in the clubhouse long, Clay had spoken with her again. The Sons of Anarchy, that was what they called themselves. The illustration on their vests, or cuts as she was told, was appropriate. By itself it was not terrifying but heaped together with a bunch of toughened bikers, that was something else.

He was the President of this club. Suddenly the princess jabs made sense. She was practically royalty in their world and there were a lot of things people would give to find themselves in her position. She couldn't think of herself trying to use anybody like that and suddenly understood the caution when it came to her.

Claire also got the G-rated definition of a sweetbutt. To think that she looked like that to someone was disturbing to say the least. It was safe to say her opinion of Tig had not gotten any better.

Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard someone climbing up the ladder. Claire looked over to see a blonde haired man step on the roof. He was young, but older than Juice-what kind of name was that anyway?-which certainly meant he was older than her. He stared at her a moment, as though surprised that she, or maybe anyone else for that matter, was up there. In the darkness, she could just make out the patches on his cut. So this was the Vice President.

"Hey," he said with a nod of his head, sitting down not exactly next to but close to her.

"Hi."

"You Claire?"

"That obvious, huh?"

He shrugged, digging in his pockets, producing a cigarette and lighter. Like Clay had the other night, he asked permission and received it, lighting up soon after. They sat silent for a while, letting the smoke wrap around them like a fog. It was strange how comfortable it felt, like he was someone she just knew, though she could not remember where from.

"What do you think about this?"

"About what?" he asked. He knew what she was talking about. It was kind of hard not to.

"About me being here…staying here."

He shook his head. "Doesn't matter to me. Ain't any of my business."

"Shouldn't the VP make it his business?" Claire turned to him, noticing the smile that had grown on his face. He seemed very entertained by her notion.

"Look, Claire," he said with a chuckle. "What a guy does with his family isn't the club's business until it gets us in trouble. You gonna get us in trouble?" She shook her head. "Why do you care so much about what I think anyway?"

Claire faced Charming again, asking herself the same question. "I guess I feel like the red headed step child. Have to seek approval wherever I can."

The Vice President nodded slowly, seeming to understand. "You've got my mom's if that means anything to you."

It did not take very long for Claire to piece it all together. He was Gemma's son. Gemma was married to Clay. Clay, of course, was her father. She did not want to hope for what seemed like an impossible outcome but maybe…

As if reading her mind, he said, "Sorry to burst your family bubble but Clay is only my stepfather."

Claire mumbled a small 'oh' and turned her head downward, embarrassed. The man sat there only a few moments longer before standing, flicking his cigarette in some random direction, never to be seen again. She did not look up and waited for him to be gone but he stood still a moment. She got the feeling he was looking at her.

"Name's Jax Teller by the way." She looked up at him and smiled, watching him walk away toward the ladder. A part of her wondered how he could be the son of Gemma. He was nice. Maybe Gemma was nice too, in her own special way. She frowned. Special alright.

"Hey, Jax," Claire said, standing up. He stopped short of the ladder and turned to her. Unlike others who seemed bothered by her questions, Jax looked open to it. "What's this life like, being with the club?"

She heard him sigh. That was never a good sign but she suspected it would happen. "This ain't a normal family, Claire. You'll see things that you shouldn't and you'll be asked to do things that no normal person would ever imagine having to do. You gotta be prepared for the worst."

He left then. Claire hardly noticed. She was lost in her thoughts again. One moment she felt fantastic about being with a family, a close one at that, and the next she was questioning her decision, unsure of her future and her safety for that matter. Nothing had really been said about what they did but there were alarms going off in her head and her instinct about people and places was rarely mistaken. Something was wrong with the Sons of Anarchy but she wondered if she actually had the option to leave or if this truly was her only choice.

* * *

><p>Claire woke up that morning with a lot on her mind. She had fallen asleep that way, thus she tossed and turned like the sea so to speak. Her dreams were chaotic, unable to focus. Sometimes they were pleasant but then the floor would give out from under her and she would be tossed into the darkness. She saw faces and heard voices, none terrifying, just distant. All in all, it had been a bad night.<p>

Her shower was cold but even that could not shake her from the stupor she had woken in. Somewhere in the back of her mind, something felt wrong, and it poked and prodded her with all its might, hoping to warn her of an impending…something. It wouldn't be good, whatever it was. The world outside looked bright and cheerful but she could see through the mask.

"You're paranoid," Claire whispered to herself, putting on her clothes. Maybe she was. What Jax had said had really shaken her. Perhaps that was why no one ever gave her a straight answer. She couldn't handle the truth.

Throwing her hair in a ponytail, Claire stepped outside into the hall. She wore the same jeans from yesterday but put on a loose brown shirt with a faded rose on it. It was probably the closest thing to a treasured item that she owned, given to her when one of the few people she categorized as a friend moved away.

Claire stepped out to find Gemma working on paperwork, Juice sitting at his laptop and Clay, Tig, the Scot and the bigger man she had seen Clay speaking with earlier laughing it up over something. Some were holding pool sticks, others alcohol. It seemed a bit early for that but then again, all hours had been happy hour back home. There was also an older man sitting on the couch at the far wall. He had an oxygen machine and a mean look on his face. Unlike the others, his cut was on jean material rather than leather. It made her curious.

"We're clear of the ATF ladies and germs!" Clay shouted suddenly, catching Claire's attention. ATF, as in Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, as in at the very least the Sons were investigated for doing something illegal that caught their interest. Claire gulped and felt the urge to run into her room and lock the door. She caught Gemma's gaze and froze. It was as though the woman was urging her not to freak out. Easier said than done.

Someone touched her shoulder and Claire could not help but jump. She turned to face Juice, who had an apologetic look on his face.

"Oh, geez, sorry Claire. Didn't mean to scare you."

She shook her head. "No, it's okay…I just…what do you want?"

Juice walked back over to his laptop and held up a pair of headphones attached to it. Curious, Claire stepped forward and put them on. After adjusting them to the appropriate small size, she watched Juice press a key on his laptop and suddenly music filled her ears.

_Bridges burning gladly_

_Merging with the shadows_

_Flickering between the lines._

_Stolen moments floating softly on the air_

_Born on wings of fire and climbing higher._

_Ancient bonds are breaking_

_Moving on and changing sides._

_Dreaming of a new day_

_Cast aside the other way._

Taking off the headphones, Claire looked at Juice. "I like it. Who is that?"

He smiled. "Pink Floyd." Claire returned it and even laughed a little, something that he joined her in but he quieted quickly as he noticed something behind her, smile turning to a frown. She turned around and saw a small television, showing her what appeared to be the images from a security camera. There were armed individuals on the screen.

"Shit," he mumbled. "Clay, cops!"

Not long after he said it, the door burst open and the cops Juice spoke of piled into the room, armed with weapons she had only seen in movies. Claire could not help but scream a little, though she quickly clasped her hands over her mouth. Juice stepped in front of her a moment, not that it made much of a difference. He was put down by the cops, a weapon pointed to his head.

"Get down! Everyone down!" someone shouted. A hand grabbed her roughly by the back of her shirt, forcing her to the ground. Claire was petrified, whimpering as her eyes darted back and forth over all of the individuals rushing in the room. She saw Clay on the floor in front of her as well as Gemma and Jax, who seemed to have appeared from nowhere.

"Robert Munson," a voice said, carrying over the racket, "you're under arrest for the murder of Brenan Hefner."

_Murder?_

Claire covered her head with her hands and tried desperately to disappear into the floor. She heard footsteps approaching her, not the boots of the cops but heels. She dared not look up. Maybe if she ignored them, they would leave her alone but as she heard them come to a halt by her head, she felt that theory die.

"Well, well, who's this?" a female voice asked, voice getting closer, indicating she was kneeling. Claire turned one eye outward, seeing a woman with a bruised face and taped nose. Why did she get the feeling the Sons had something to do with that? "Doesn't exactly look like your typical Crow Eater, does she?"

_Crow Eater?_

She saw the woman's hand move. It grabbed the back of her shirt and pulled it down slightly. Claire flinched and tried to move away.

"Get your hands off'a her!" Clay shouted. She heard sounds of him moving, as well as the sounds of people stopping him. She felt extremely thankful for his outburst.

"Oh, calm down, Clay," the woman said. "No harm, no foul. Here, I'll even make it up to you." Gripping her shoulders now, the woman helped Claire to her feet, even mock dusting her. She stepped away from her as far as she could, leaning against the bar. "See? All better. I just wanted to see the tattoo that was poking out there. Crow's wings right? How appropriate. Do you belong to one of these fine gentlemen? Maybe Juicy here."

The woman prodded Juice with her foot and Claire saw him glare up at her. When she looked up again, she saw the woman scrutinizing her very closely. It made her uncomfortable, making her try to back up further, as impossible as it was. She was staring straight at her eyes and though Claire wished to shut them, she did not. Suddenly the woman smiled and even chuckled a bit. The look on her face was, for lack of a better word, creepy.

"You have your daddy's eyes. Congratulations, Clay, your kingdom is growing," she said, turning in his direction. From all over the room, Claire saw glares being focused in the woman's direction. Even Tig seemed to have a harsher than usual look. It was somehow reassuring knowing that he did not seem to hate her as much.

She turned back, offering her hand. "Agent June Stahl, ATF. I've got a feeling we're going to get to know each other well. Or, at the very least, you'll get to know the floor as I drag every one of these guys off to prison." Claire hesitantly took her hand and shook it lightly. "What? No words for me?"

Claire looked around again a second, as though looking for some kind of permission. The others did appear curious as to what she would say. She took a breath then and in a low voice said, "Thank whoever gave you that bruise for me."

Stahl frowned as the room erupted in appreciative laughter from the Sons of Anarchy members. Clay could be heard saying something along the lines of 'that's my girl' before he received a kick to the chest to shut him up. Moving away from her, Stahl motioned to her team.

"Let's get the hell out of here. Wrap it up."

Eventually the clubhouse was cleared, and things looked normal again, save for the disappearance of Robert Munson. Juice smiled at her again but it did not last long this time since she did not return it. She looked over every face remaining in the room, all their gazes somehow fixed on her. They probably knew she had something else to say, which she did.

"Who the hell are you people!" she shouted, swearing that her voice echoed. When no one answered right away, Claire took off, doing what she had wanted to do when she first heard ATF.

Suddenly the phrase: out of the frying pan and into the fire made sense for the first time in her life.

* * *

><p>Thanks for reading! :D<p> 


	4. All of Their Baggage

Hey guys! Whoo, long chapter! That might be because next chapter is shorter. Not sure yet but I hope ya'll enjoy it! Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews! Hope you guys had a great Thanksgiving and Black Friday! I did according to my bank statement.

Random question here: am I the only one who sometimes refers to the Intelligence Officer as Juicy Juice? I am? Okay, forget I mentioned that. :P

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

**All of Their Baggage**

"I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this." Claire mumbled over and over again, pacing back and forth in her room. She could not remember how long she had been at it; she couldn't even remember starting but part of her felt that the floor should have been worn down a good inch by now.

This was crazy! Absolutely insane! Her whole life she had been hoping for a family, a real one with a father that had loved her and a mother that actually seemed to care. After the stories she had, she thought that might come true for her. Brothers in blood alright, other people's blood. They hardly reacted to the murder charges, to the raid, like it was just another day at work. And of course Claire could not shake what Stahl had said to her.

Something was wrong with the Sons alright: everything.

With a sigh, Claire collapsed on the bed, staring at the ceiling. What had she been thinking staying with these people? She knew it was wrong to assume that all motorcycle clubs were bad but the Sons of Anarchy hardly looked like innocent do-gooders. She knew there was something wrong with the way they spoke, how they regarded her, how they tested her. The entire time she had been thinking about it but the instant Clay opened his arms, she had tossed it all aside. Gemma was right. She had been looking for someone to take her in, so desperately that she disregarded every warning sign that would have sent a normal person running for the hills. Of course, when had her life qualified as normal?

Claire sat up, burying her face in her hands. How could anyone live this way?

Her door flew open, slamming into the wall. She did not look up at the intruder. It was fairly obvious who had come after her.

"Get up," Gemma said, the authority in her voice making her sound more like a Drill Sergeant than a human being.

"Why should I?" Claire asked, remaining firmly planted on the bed. Gemma gave her an icy look but it did little to help. All she received from it was a glare.

"I'm going to show you something."

"Is it my body bag?" Now Gemma had a new look on her face. She appeared to be contemplating something. Claire thought it strange that her look appeared slightly warmer after her comment. Things didn't make much sense in this family but she had already figured that out.

"Haven't decided yet."

Claire began to laugh, much to her own surprise. "No, of course not. Your murderer just got locked away."

"Alleged murderer," Gemma replied, placing an emphasis on the added word. She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway, waiting for her response. At first, Claire had none. She just gaped at the words still fresh in her memory.

"Who talks like that?" she whispered, suddenly standing. "I mean, you sound like someone out of a crime show. Alleged…that's not normal!"

"What, were you expecting the Partridge Family? This is reality, princess. It ain't sugar coated."

Oh, she knew that.

Claire opened her mouth to say something but in her anger, the words vanished on her. Snapping it shut, she shook her head and started to pace, needing to find some way to vent her frustrations.

"Being in your good graces isn't exactly a priority for me or the club, so you can either come with me or you can leave. I don't give a damn which."

So once again, Claire found herself at a crossroads, only now she was painfully aware of what their side would bring to the table. If she was smart, she would have gone with the latter. An empty future sure looked a lot more tempting than one she was fairly certain would end bloody. But like before, she found herself drawn to this group. Something inside was compelling her to stay and so despite the protests of every intelligent part of her, she nodded.

"Okay, where are we going?"

* * *

><p>Driving with Gemma in complete silence may have been the most awkward thing Claire had ever experienced. Not once did Gemma even bother to touch the radio, but for some reason she believed that would have made it an even more cringe worthy experience. For the most part, Claire watched the outside world pass by, noting everything about the small town such as the lack of chain stores and the abundance of colorful characters. No one here seemed like a cardboard cutout of something that already existed. They just seemed like…them.<p>

Eventually the two pulled into a parking lot for Saint Thomas. After being a part of a police raid where a man was carried off for murder, it was definitely more than unnerving to find herself at a hospital. Maybe Gemma was going to show her to her body bag after all.

Silently she followed behind Gemma, avoiding eye contact with any of the personnel they passed. From the looks she saw, these people knew Gemma well, which was not very encouraging. She tried not to think of the things that might be gossiped about her, a scared to death looking girl they did not know following this woman around like a lost puppy.

Finally Gemma stopped in front of a window. She motioned with her head and Claire looked inside.

It was the nursery. Inside were several babies, most sleeping though a few still seemed to be awake. One in particular stuck out to her, a little boy with a baby blue cap that had a reaper on it. She tilted her head, trying to get a closer look at the tag on his bed.

"His name's Abel," Gemma said. "Jax's son."

Claire looked up and nodded. "He's beautiful."

"He sure is." Gemma looked at her grandson, swelling with pride. It was now that Claire could see the kind of person Gemma was. She was no longer the Queen, high and mighty on her throne, intimidating to all who fell under her. She was just a mother who loved her family as much as any other. Suddenly a lot of things made sense to her, why she was the way she was. For a moment, she understood her. "Almost didn't make it. His…mother was doing drugs while she was pregnant."

She looked back to Abel. "I know a bit about bad mothers."

"I bet you do." Claire did not say anything but was not bothered about what Gemma said. It did not contain a trace of sarcasm like usual. Instead it almost felt like the woman was sympathizing with her but that sounded too good to be true. "He comes home day after tomorrow. We're throwing a party. The whole club is going to be there."

Claire touched the glass, wishing she could reach a little further. What a lucky child he was. He entered the world struggling but now he had a family, a large one that was pulling for him and would be there for him every step of the way. She hoped that the feeling rising in her chest was happiness and not jealousy toward the little bundle in front of her.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. "This is what the club is about. Family. Everything else, it's just baggage, unimportant."

"Baggage," Claire echoed. "I guess that's the nice way of putting gun handlers and murderers." She spoke it in a whisper without any anger, which was probably why Gemma was kind in her response.

"You learn to love the club, Claire. Everyone else has."

Claire bit her lip. "Why me, Gemma? Why try so hard to keep me here?"

Gemma sighed and was silent a moment.

"_Why do you care so much about her, Clay?" Gemma had asked one night as they lay together after a round of sex. Normally she didn't engage in this sort of pillow talk but her damn curiosity was getting the better of her._

_Her husband sighed. She could feel the bed move as he ran a hand through his hair. "Regrettin' things in my old age, I guess."_

_Gemma looked up at him, not liking where it was going. "What's that supposed to mean?"_

_There was a pause. "I knew Monica was pregnant. It's part of the reason I drove her out of town."_

"_Jesus Christ," Gemma mumbled, crawling out of bed. She needed a smoke. "You want to confess anything else before it comes walking through the door?"_

"_You listen here," Clay said, pointing at her as she slipped on a robe. "This shit was before us. I don't owe you any kind of explanation."_

"_So what is this, huh?" Gemma asked, gesturing. "Some kind of redemption? Making up for lost time?"_

_Clay shook his head, looking uncertain. "I don't know. Claire's been through some shit. Life with Monica can't have been easy. I guess she just…deserves something better."_

_Gemma's look softened. She took a step forward and placed a kiss on her husband's forehead. "You're getting soft."_

"_Don't remind me."_

"You're blood, Claire, family, whether any of us like it or not."

Claire got a strange sort of smirk on her face. "And what do you think?"

Gemma gave one of her rare smiles. "I think I can get used to it. Welcome to SAMCRO."

"Sam…crow?" Claire repeated, confused. Gemma placed a hand on her back and led her away from the nursery.

"Looks like those wings of yours might come in handy."

* * *

><p>It was the day of Abel's homecoming. While Gemma was in a frenzy getting last minute items, Claire had been left to her own devices and was currently sitting at the counter of a local diner, filling out her third application of the day. She had meant what she said about getting a job and paying them back. According to the new outfit she wore, proper fitting jeans, a good pair of flats and a comfortable blouse, she already owed them some money.<p>

Claire was humming a song to herself, which happened to be the one by Pink Floyd Juice had shown her, happier than she had been in quite some time. She supposed it was unusual, her sudden acceptance of the family after everything. No, it was unusual, probably psychotic, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized that she was built for a family like this, different. It was the family she deserved. Fitting in with a normal group of individuals suddenly seemed a much more difficult task the longer she thought about it.

Besides, if her tattoos didn't scream destiny, she had no idea what did.

Clay and Gemma had given her a spare bedroom in their house. She hadn't wanted to cry in front of them, but she had, unable to control herself. She had suppressed the urge to hug either one of them though, knowing that was definitely a long way off from being a habit but Clay had surprised her by giving her a small one, welcoming her home. Somehow it just felt right.

Gemma, of course, had to top it off when they left her for the evening. Just before she closed the door, she said, "If I catch you sleeping on the floor, I'm kicking you out."

Smiling to herself, Claire finished up the application and waited for the waitress to return. She took a sip from her water and looked around. Out of the other places she had been to, a grocery store and a gas station, this was definitely the best. The atmosphere was warm and welcoming, much like the town. She would not mind working there.

"Haven't seen you around before."

Claire looked to her left, noting a man in a police uniform. He was young, probably around Jax's age, and very handsome. She smiled, trying not to look stupid.

"Is Charming really that small?" she asked, wondering if everyone truly knew everyone.

"I'd like to think so," he replied, pushing his empty plate away. "So, when did you get here?"

"A few days ago." She paused. "How do you know I'm not just passing through?"

He pointed to the paper in front of her. "Not many visitors stop to fill out applications." She could feel her skin heat up. So much for not appearing stupid. The man chuckled. Great, he noticed. He offered his hand. "David Hale, Deputy Chief."

Claire shook it, preferring this form of law enforcement over the others she 'met' the other day. "Claire Hayford."

He nodded. "So, Claire, where are you staying?"

"Up on Oak Street with family." She watched Hale slowly piece together the information. If the Sons were as prominent as she thought they were, she figured he might draw some sort of conclusion.

"If I may ask, with whom?"

Just as Claire was about to answer, the bell attached to the door rang and in stepped Gemma. She lacked bags but Claire had a feeling the back seat of the car was filled to the brim.

"Gemma," Hale said.

"Deputy," she replied with a nod. She nudged Claire. "Ready to go, kid?"

The look on Hale's face was priceless. Claire tried very hard not to laugh but the smile still got through. He looked at her. "You live with them?" She nodded.

"Can't you see the family resemblance?" Gemma asked, her sarcasm back with all its glory. After a few moments, when it was clear that Hale would not be responding, the two walked out of the diner together. She followed Gemma back to her car which, as she thought, was about to explode with supplies. Getting in the passenger's side, Claire waited until they were on the road to say anything.

"So, how well do you know him?"

"Don't even think about it," Gemma deadpanned. That shut her up the rest of the car ride.

* * *

><p>"Are you really sure I should be here?" Claire asked as she set up the buffet of sorts in the kitchen. It was just the two of them, which should have seemed like a daunting task but Gemma was some kind of miracle worker, probably taking care of more than half of the work load. She had wondered why they were doing it alone considering all the 'help' that was offered by the other women of the club, the sweetbutts, crow eaters or whatever the men liked to call them. Gemma made it clear why they were doing it on their own: it was strictly a family matter. The little tarts, as she referred to them, didn't have the privilege of being included. Claire found it odd. She did nothing and was 'privileged' while they did everything (literally) and got no more than a kick out of the door.<p>

Gemma gave her the 'are you really asking me that?' look. "Of course I am. Why shouldn't you?"

"I don't know," Claire mumbled, giving the salad an extra toss. "Too soon maybe. Hardly anyone knows me."

She heard the shuffling of feet and realized Gemma was standing behind her. "Remember, you're family now. You have to start interacting at some point."

That managed to get a laugh from Claire as she finished setting up. Not long after, the front door opened, revealing a woman, two children and one of the Sons she had yet to meet. He was a big man, tall and broad, but despite his intimidating physical attributes, he held a look in his eyes that suggested he fell more along the lines of a gentle giant, at least as far as a Son could go.

"Gifts go in the nursery, down the hall to the right!" Gemma shouted, not looking up from whatever was cooking on the stove.

Claire smiled at the newcomers, a gesture reciprocated by the woman. She walked up to Claire, looking a lot taller than she did next to her husband, though she still fell just below her height.

"You must be Claire," she said with confidence. At this point, people knowing her name no longer surprised her.

"I am," Claire replied with a nod, not exactly sure what else to say. It was like she knew their names.

"I'm Donna. These are my kids, Ellie and Kenny, and my husband, Opie. I'm not sure if you two have met."

"Hi," Opie said as he shook her hand. He turned to Donna. "I'm gonna take the kids to Abel's room."

"Okay," she replied, turning back to Claire. "So, how are you settling in?"

"It's been a…bumpy road." She paused. "I'm sorry. It's just weird that everyone walks in here knowing my name."

"Yeah, you get used to it. If there's anything you don't want people to know, better make sure to keep it to yourself or the whole club will be in on the secret." Claire knew she had pegged them on the gossip. People always spoke about women doing it but there were days she believed men were worse.

Donna looked around. "So, is there anything I can do? Or maybe I should ask the slave driver."

"I heard that!" Gemma shouted, her voice carrying over from the kitchen. The two smiled and went back to help her.

Time passed. The darker it grew, the more people arrived. At this point Claire felt she had met almost everyone, save for Robert, who they all referred to as Bobby. It turned out Opie was born into the club as well. The older man she had seen the other day, Piney, was his father. He was a gruff man, and if possible taller than his son, but she liked him. He was every bit the old biker she imagined. It even entertained her that he still smoked with his oxygen, as dangerous as it was.

Most people had eaten already, too impatient with Jax taking his time coming over. She had joined the line for food and watched almost in terror as the Scotsman, or Chibs as he liked to be called, piled an extra amount on her plate.

"Yer skinny enough as it is," he had said. "No need to help it."

She had chosen to sit in a corner of the room, satisfied with watching the family interact. This was the part she had been looking for: the closeness, the laughter, the love. It was perfect and to think all these people knew about what the Sons did. They had adjusted, why couldn't she?

"You doin' alright?" Clay asked as he sat next to her, a beer in hand.

Claire nodded. "Yeah, I think I am."

"You know, I didn't really expect you to stay."

"Neither did I," she admitted. "Gemma has a way with words."

"That she does," Clay replied, taking a swig from his beer. The two sat in comfortable silence after that, both watching their family. Claire took a moment to wonder what was to become of all this. She could never picture herself calling Gemma mom but would she call Clay dad or father? Would they ever be close or just good acquaintances who lived under the same roof? Could she ever find herself talking and laughing with the family as others did now or would she always be a wallflower, watching and content to keep quiet?

"If you keep thinking so hard, you might hurt yourself," Clay mused, interrupting her thoughts. She looked over at him and nodded, but said nothing. "What's on your mind?"

Claire shrugged. "Everything I guess. My life, the club, family." She spoke the word as though it were foreign to her.

He sighed. "Listen, Claire, this isn't going to be easy, for either of us. But this family, it's a good thing to have." He paused. "And that shit you had to go through the other day, I'm sorry. It's normally not like that."

"Then what's it usually like?"

"Quiet."

Claire smiled. "Seems a bit ironic if you ask me."

"Trust me, it's not all about gang bangin' and cop killin' over here. We like to keep things simple. All this will blow over and life will go back to its normal, boring self."

"I like the sound of that."

"Thought you might."

Things in the house quieted down when the front door opened, revealing Jax with baby Abel in his arms and a woman with wavy blonde hair. It must have been his mother. She looked pretty good but Claire could spot a user when she saw one. Over the course of her life she had met enough of them.

Clay immediately stood up and walked over, barging through the crowd that had gathered. Claire stayed where she was. She had no right to take a turn with him. Maybe one day she would but not now.

As she sat there watching the interactions, Claire noticed a very bored looking Kenny sitting at the coffee table. He had a pencil and a piece of paper in front of him but appeared to be doing nothing with it.

Now she wasn't exactly the best with kids, having no siblings of her own or any other young family members. In fact, she considered herself quite awkward with them and the thought of being stuck alone with one was at times terrifying. Despite all this, she felt compelled to talk to the boy.

Stepping out of her seat, Claire sat next to him on the floor. "It's Kenny, right?" The boy nodded. "Are you going to draw something?"

"No," he said flatly, completely uninterested. Claire bit her lip.

"Mind if I give it a try?" He slid the paper over. Grabbing the pencil, she thought about what he might be interested in. Cars maybe, or dinosaurs, typical boy stuff. She considered a motorcycle since his dad was in the club but that seemed too unoriginal; she was over thinking it.

Finally an idea struck her and Claire began to sketch. Her hand moved rapidly over the paper so the drawing was light at first until repetitive movements began to darken it in. Eventually she noticed Kenny glancing over at the drawing, curious. He wasn't alone. Claire had not failed to see Juice sitting on the couch across from them, watching it with the same fascination. Comparing the two boys entertained her.

When she finished, Claire presented the paper to Kenny. On it was a cowboy twirling his lasso in the air while riding a horse. Kenny stared at it wide eyed a moment before running off and shouting, "Dad, look what Claire drew!"

She watched the adults gather around him to look at the drawing. Claire noticed Gemma's nod of approval and she felt herself swell with pride. If she impressed the Queen, she had a chance.

"That was pretty damn impressive," Juice said to her.

Claire smiled. "Thanks. It's just a hobby really."

"Yeah, like hacking into computers is mine."

She tilted her head to the side. "I never took you for the nerdy type."

He shrugged. "That's cause I'm not. Have to be intelligent to be a nerd."

Sitting down next to him on the couch, Claire gave Juice a funny look. "You seem intelligent to me."

"Thanks for the compliment but that clearly means you don't know me well."

"How so?"

Unbeknownst to her, Jax had been listening to their little conversation. He leaned over the couch and said, "You're talking about the guy who woke up in a diaper with a sign stapled to his chest."

Claire looked up at Jax like he was crazy but he just smiled knowingly and walked away. "What did he say?"

"Nothin'," Juice said almost immediately, eyes wide and embarrassed.

"No, no, I heard something about a diaper and staples."

"It's a long story."

"It's a long party."

For the next hour or so, Claire spent her time talking with Juice. She did not want to say that most of the time she was laughing at things he did but it was true, especially when Chibs decided to share a few of his own stories. However, when a dark haired woman stormed out of the house, Juice was tasked to leave and Claire found herself alone on the couch with the beginnings of a stomachache.

As time passed on, she continued to feel worse and decided to escape outside. The air was much cooler and she took in huge gulps of it, sitting on the front curb. That was when she heard the front door open and saw Donna, Opie and the kids walking out. They were headed home for the night. She didn't really want to bother them with a ride but the last thing she needed was to embarrass herself at the party.

Donna was about to get in the car when Claire approached her. "Hey Donna, would you mind giving me a lift home? I'm not feeling too well."

To her relief, the woman smiled. "Sure, no problem. Actually…" She turned to Opie who was about to get in his truck. "Hey, are you going straight home?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I was thinking about staying and helping Gemma clean up. I'll take the truck and get Claire home." The two quickly exchanged keys, and kisses, as Claire crawled into the passenger's side of the truck. They were on the road in no time, the motion not helping. Claire tucked her head between her knees and stayed that way.

"How you feeling?" Donna asked, rubbing her back briefly.

"Chibs did this to me. He made me eat all that food."

"Well, you are pretty skinny."

"I'm well aware of that," Claire replied in a not too friendly tone. She could hear Donna chuckling. Good to know she was in a great mood. She was quiet for a bit after that. "Does it ever get better?"

"What do you mean?"

Claire turned her head to look at her, keeping it low. "Life with the club."

She saw Donna pause, thinking about it a while. Then she nodded. "It does, Claire. It might take a while but it does." Satisfied, Claire turned her head back toward her feet.

They were stopped when it happened. The only thing Claire was really aware of was the pounding in her head and stomach, though she thought the radio might have been on. Then she heard the sound of smashing glass and a few dull thuds. Suddenly the horn of the truck was blaring in her ears, the only sound that had actually made her jump. Claire looked up, locking eyes with Donna, only hers were lifeless as she leaned against the steering wheel, blood pouring out of her head. She blinked, reached out to touch the woman but stopped, afraid.

She heard the sound of screeching tires and could not help but look up, even though every alarm in her mind warned her not to. There was a black SUV next to them, the driver of it staring straight at her with surprised blue eyes. They stayed that way for a few moments before he drove off, shouting something she couldn't make out. She watched him leave, panting. The gravity of the situation suddenly began to weigh down on her.

Donna was dead.

She had died in the truck with her.

She was dead and right behind her.

Claire began to freak out, pulling at the handle of the truck desperately but for some reason it did not open for her at first. Tears began to stream down her face as she struggled, finally shoving the door with a shout and spilling out onto the road when it finally gave way. She fell onto her back, lying like that for some time, crying. A man rushed to her side, asking if she was okay, but all Claire could do was sob. Then she turned over and got sick in the street.

Those eyes. Oh God, she knew those eyes.

* * *

><p>Uh oh...<p>

Sorry if this chapter, though long, felt rushed. It's basically a giant set up for Chapter Five which contains a scene that I have honestly wanted to write since this incident first happened in Season One. So it might take a while for me to update. I'm going to want it to be perfection. These first chapters have shown Claire introduced into their world but these next chapters are setting up the role Claire is going to play with the Sons and what kind of person they make her.

Also, if it's not too much, I posted another story on here called "Heartbeat." I would really appreciate it if you guys checked it out.

Thanks for reading!


	5. The Road to Hell

Okay, this chapter…I am in love, I'm just going to tell you that. I just…yes. Also, I am completely in love with the finale. Kurt Sutter, you are perfection.

Oh, and I guess I lied. It is pretty long. Huh...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five<strong>

**The Road to Hell…**

A Son hated to feel helpless. It was another word for weak and that was something they were not. No member could afford to be that way. His life and the lives of his brothers depended on his strength. He would shoulder any burden and even lay down his life for the sake of the club. There was no such thing as weak, no such thing as helpless.

And yet, that was how Clay felt.

No words registered to him as he listened to the endless ringing. There was a muffled sound in the background that might have been Gemma but she may as well have been any other droning noise in the house. She would not get through to her King that night.

He sat down, heavy and stiff, where he and Claire once had their conversation. There he waited for the inevitable, the phone call that confirmed two children were fatherless and their mother was a widow. And it would all be his fault. He may not have been the one to pull the trigger but the action would have never taken place without his consent. His mouth was the gun; his words the bullets.

It felt like an eternity waiting on Death. The Horseman took so long that when Clay finally heard the sound of a cell, he almost felt relieved. Instantly he began to play out how it would happen, how he would talk his way out of this one. Jax would suspect, hell he would know. It didn't matter how they covered up the death, Opie could have hung himself for all he cared. Jax would find a way to blame him. But he would keep quiet about it. He was smart. Better to lose a friend than the entire club to their namesake of anarchy. If not, he was sure Unser could paint a pretty picture of Opie's betrayal.

Jax answered his phone and Clay watched. Most days he would dare to say he knew his stepson well, could even guess at what he was thinking on the good ones. However, one trait kept him from fully keeping a bead on his VP: his hotheadedness. When angry, Jax was unpredictable. He could either be incredibly intelligent or horribly reckless. Clay had a guess at what he might see tonight.

The look of surprise Jax gave him was expected but what followed was not.

"We've gotta go," he practically whispered. Suddenly Clay felt his senses improve tenfold and he found himself able to hear everything with a clarity that disturbed him.

"What happened?" he asked, standing. He could probably win every goddamn award for the performance he was giving.

"It's Donna."

It took Clay all his strength to stay standing. Donna? That was not the name he was supposed to hear.

"What about Donna?" Gemma asked as the party fell silent and the rest of the participants circled around.

Clay closed his eyes, listening to his stepson's reply.

"She's dead."

Damn him.

For all the waiting he had done, Clay found the ride to the scene relatively quick. Maybe it was because he had no thoughts to occupy him, only the cold emptiness of realization filled his shell, numbing all other emotion and whatever pain that may have been in his hands. Then again, it just may have been fate toying with him, eager to show off the consequences of his actions, the price he had to pay to hold his throne.

They pulled up to the scene where Opie's truck still sat at the intersection, the back window busted open from several rounds having shot through. Emergency responders were in the process of lowering her body from the vehicle. Her. Donna. Not Opie but his wife.

He caught the sound of screeching tires. It was hard not to. Opie started to cry out her name and then it became nothing more than a muffled whimper as he wept over her lifeless body, as he cradled her bloody and broken head in his hands.

Clay buried his face in his palms, hiding the anguish written all over his face.

Damn him to Hell.

He turned around then, eyes landing on an ambulance in the distance. The back doors were wide open. He could see Hale standing before it, silhouetted by the light escaping the vehicle. The son of a bitch was going to have a field day with this, he could tell. As he followed the deputy's gaze, he noticed there was someone sitting in the ambulance, their legs swinging freely in the cool night air. They were wrapped in a blanket, their facial features obscured by the distance and light, but there was no mistaking that auburn hair.

"Claire?" he whispered, as though he did not believe what he saw. No, he refused to believe it. She had been at the party, enjoying it in her own awkward way. At that very moment she was there helping Gemma clear guests out of the house, not at the scene of the crime, not a near victim of his Sergeant at Arms, not a witness to his command. She was at the house, damn it! She could not be there!

"Claire!" he shouted, jogging now. Hale sensed him on his radar and stepped in his path, blocking the route to her. "Get out of the way, she's my daughter!"

"I know she is," the deputy replied, his stern commanding voice in play once more. Still, Clay could not miss the surprise that flickered through his eyes. "But you're not going anywhere near her."

"That's not your call, Hale," Clay said, stepping closer, his voice a threat. The man said nothing but his jaw twitched. He knew he had him there. They both turned to the bundle sitting a few feet behind them. She had been staring at the ground but seemed to sense their gazes. When she turned upwards to face them, Clay cursed himself more. Her eyes were dead, lost in that thousand mile stare that he had seen so many others experience the first time they saw death. Not the kind where people drifted off to sleep, looking content. It was the bloody kind, the inhumane destruction that brought grown men to their knees but she was not a grown man, not even a boy. This was a nineteen year old girl.

Her nod was small, hardly visible, but Clay saw it. He took a step forward only to find Hale gripping his cut. It took a lot for Clay not to deck him right then and there.

"I know she saw something, Clay," Hale whispered in his ear. "Don't drag her down with you."

For once, Clay had nothing to say in response. He shrugged out of Hale's grasp and marched forward to his daughter whose eyes were examining the ground once more. Clay preferred it that way, unsure if he could take looking into them.

No words of comfort came to him as he sat there next to her. At first he had reached out, almost wrapped his arm around her shoulders, but pulled back before he committed. There was something so wrong about the gesture. If it were not for him, she would not have been in this situation in the first place. What right did he have to consoling her?

"Did you…see anything?" he asked eventually, the need for self preservation finally winning him over. Right now she was the one thing that could make or break this club, the daughter he had known all of a week. She had no loyalties to him or the Sons. If she identified Tig, he was done. There would be no helping him.

Just as he thought it, the sound of more motorcycles approaching got his attention. Juice and Tig had arrived. The man had balls coming here. Hell, he might not have even known that Claire had been in the truck. For a moment, Clay allowed himself to become paranoid. He watched every cop that patrolled the area but their glances toward the SAA were no different than usual. They did not know, just as Hale had hinted at.

He watched Tig turn in their direction. His eyes became locked on something, the look on his face one Clay had never seen him possess. Instantly he knew Tig was looking at Claire. Curiosity caused him to look down at his daughter.

Her eyes were locked on Tig's. They no longer looked distant but held a coolness in them, a reserved anger that burned deep within. The accusation in them cut him like a knife and Clay was not even the recipient.

"No," she said flatly, her voice not her own. "I saw nothing."

That was all she said. All the emotion she had left was spent in that one look. She was as silent and still as Donna the rest of the evening. When she was finally cleared to go home, she moved like a girl possessed. Innocence had died that night.

Damn them both.

* * *

><p>The house had fallen silent but Claire hardly noticed. Echoing in the distance was the horn of the truck, the sound once a solid tone turned into some lamentation to the woman slain in its interior. It would be broken by the sound of shattering glass, by the sickening thud of metal colliding with flesh. Even in the darkness, Claire could see her eyes. They stared straight through her into forever. She urged them to move but her pleas were useless. Donna was no more alive than her mother.<p>

She heard the sound of tires. Suddenly the image changed. Blue eyes stared at her through a mask until it melted away, revealing the face of Tig. He looked so confused and lost, a part of her even dared to say afraid. Even monsters had things to fear.

However his fear suddenly vanished. He lips curled into a sneer and he began to raise his right arm. He did not stop until the gun in his hand centered on her chest. Claire barely had time to open her mouth, some unearthly sound caught in her throat, before he fired. It all moved in slow motion. She could see smoke curling around the barrel, watch the growing amusement in his eyes as the bullet began to bury itself in her ribcage.

Claire bolted upright, grasping at her chest. It burned where the round had imbedded itself. She scratched at her skin, not realizing it was all an illusion. It was not until her chest was a deep red that she stopped. She looked around the dark room for any sign of him but found herself just as alone as she had been earlier.

Tossing the covers off her sweat soaked body, Claire slipped out of bed. Her room was warm and stuffy, suffocating. The walls seemed to creak as they closed in around her causing the echo of her heartbeat to only amplify. She had to get out, go somewhere, anywhere, away from the sounds and the images, away from everything.

The house had been very still, the world outside even more so. It made Claire jump every time a noise interrupted it. A few times a lone car would pass by, causing her to bolt for the nearest bush or fence line for cover. It had been a stupid idea to leave but then again it would have felt stupid to stay. The rock and the hard place, she had wondered when they would meet.

Claire was not certain how much time had passed as she roamed the streets of Charming. The only thing she was truly aware of was the growing chill in the air. Her blouse was probably still at the crime scene where she had tossed it off quickly, afraid of the blood that lingered on it. All she had was her tank top. While California hardly ever qualified as cold, especially considering where she used to live, Claire nonetheless found herself shivering. Part of her wished to turn back but she did not listen, mostly because the rest of her knew she was lost.

A few minutes passed and Claire suddenly found herself staring at Teller-Morrow. She watched it for a long time across the street, waiting for something to move, to show any sign of life but it was the middle of the night and everything was as still as it should have been. Cautiously she walked forward until she stood in the middle of the lot looking over the scenery. She faced the door to the clubhouse and wondered if she should wander inside. Perhaps her old room would be available still.

Maybe _he_ would be there.

It was this thought that stayed her hand above the doorknob. She felt frozen and could no longer tell if it was from the weather or the fear that now coursed through her veins. Her room had not been the only one, that much she knew. Others must have stayed there but who exactly was a piece of information that eluded her. Did he actually stay there? Would he do anything to her? Would the others even care?

Claire sighed. She had too many thoughts and they were beginning to weigh her down, literally. Briefly she rested her head against the door until it gave way from the pressure, having not been fully closed.

Stepping back, Claire stared into the dark interior of the clubhouse. She half expected something to jump out at her but it was the same as the rest of the world had been: still. How she was starting to hate that. It made her feel as though the entire world was dead save for herself. How fitting.

Sick of the stiff breeze at her back, she decided to take the chance and step inside. The only noise that was made was the sound of her shoes hitting the floor. It gave the building an eerie feel, like a haunted house. Claire stumbled around in the darkness a few moments before she found her way to the hall and moved along it with her hand tracing along the wall. She stopped at her room. The door was wide open and it was, thankfully, empty. She was about to lock herself inside when a large thump caught her attention.

Claire froze in place. She listened intently for a long time. There were no other sounds save for the soft snoring in the room across from her. It was then she noticed a small sliver of light near the end of the hall. Someone was awake and by the sound of it, they were not doing too well.

Maybe she should have started keeping track of how many times she had ignored that little voice in her head because already in the past few days, the amount seemed to be unreal.

She slid carefully in front of the door, making sure she made no sound. Through the small crack, Claire could pick out a man on the floor, a bottle gripped tightly in his hand. It did not take her long to figure out who it was. She slapped a hand across her mouth as a gasp managed to escape her throat. Tig looked up at the sound, his gaze driving her into the wall across from his room.

"Who's there?" he slurred. She could hear him grunt as he attempted to stand; she also heard (and felt) when he fell back down to the floor. "Fuck."

Claire remained on the wall a few moments, waiting for her breathing to calm and her fingers to cease clawing at the woodwork. She then stepped forward and dared another peek into the room. There was Tig, the cold blooded killer, the Sergeant at Arms for the club, the murderer of Donna, looking like a right mess sprawled out on the floor. He was mumbling something, clutching that bottle as though it was the only thing that separated him from death. His forehead was bleeding. It had not been earlier and she briefly wondered if it was self inflicted.

Slowly she opened the door, careful to not hit his head which rested so close to it. He glanced up at her, a look she could only describe as shock crossing his face. His head turned upward, then he sat up and for a moment appeared sober.

"Claire," he whispered, his voice a mixture between disbelief and awe, the latter sparking confusion within her. She watched his eyes flit up and down as he tried to confirm her presence as real instead of a drunken hallucination. Her own eyes reflected something less than friendly as they looked over the man but deep inside she felt something of the opposite sort. Slowly fear was losing its grip on her soul and whatever anger she might have felt, should have felt, was not there to fill the void.

Tig suddenly reached out to her. Claire backed up, instantly on alert. A wounded animal was the most dangerous and she would treat him as such. He seemed to understand immediately and lowered his hand, looking away. Her confusion only grew. None of it made any sense to her. This was not the man she had met a few days ago, the one who thought she was dirt and never thought to take it back.

There had been many men like him in her life: egotistical, chauvinist pigs who would toss her mother aside like trash when they were finished. They expressed no remorse, gave no indications that they were anything more than assholes and so she labeled them all as such and any other man that came across her with a matching attitude. Tig had been no exception but here, now, his thick shell was stripped away. He was not like the others, not one bit; he was a broken, miserable creature and somehow she was starting to feel pity for him.

She stepped back inside, not stopping until she stood just in front of him. Somewhere in the back of her mind, something was questioning her actions but she did not hear it. She was no longer in control.

Claire reached out to him now, her arm hesitant and shaking. Tig remained still, watching her until her hand made contact with his hair. She heard him sigh then as her fingers wrapped around a few stands of his curly locks.

"I'm sorry," he breathed. He then lurched forward, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her stomach. She could feel his body shake as he began to cry. He mumbled various forms of apologies into her shirt as he gripped her as tightly as he had that bottle. Claire stood still, wrapping her arm around his neck. She said nothing. There were no words to be said. She simply waited until he finished.

"Why…why were you in the truck? Why was _she_ in the truck?" His ramblings went on and on along those lines until his shaking stopped and he looked up at her with genuine curiosity in his eyes. "Why didn't you scream?"

She knew why he asked it. If she had done so, had reacted in any way, shape or form, he would not have stopped and they would not find themselves in this situation now. They would be content to hate one another. His question caused her to pause. She had no answer. Internally she asked this to herself.

"Doesn't matter," Claire replied, shaking her head. "C'mon, get up."

She grabbed his cut and tried to pull him up. Her effort would not be much without some assistance on his part. Thankfully he complied, managing to stand on his shaky legs. He wobbled on his feet and nearly fell to the floor again but somehow Claire managed to keep him up instead of being dragged down with him. She put his arm over her shoulders and helped him walk the four feet to his bed, which may as well have been forty in their case.

Tig sat down hard on the end of the bed, causing something underneath to crack. She thought he would tip right over but the Sergeant at Arms surprised her by remaining upright. His eyes had lost focus though and he appeared to be staring at nothing. Claire left him like that as she walked to the bathroom. She grabbed a hand towel and began to wet it down in the sink, ignoring the stark contrast of his blood on her white top.

Glancing up, Claire's gaze locked on the mirror in front of her. It was smashed and blood covered the edges of the shards. So this was how he did it. He could not stand his reflection staring back at him. Claire noted her own in the broken glass. It began to glare at her and so she never glanced its way again.

Eventually she went back to Tig, only to find him nursing his bottle of alcohol. She crossed the room and took it from him after a few moments of coaxing. Planting her knees on the floor, Claire leaned in to get a good look at his cut. When she was satisfied that there was no glass to be found, she began to clean it with the towel, keeping her left hand firmly on his shoulder lest the pressure caused him to tip over. He said nothing as she worked, just stared past her as though she was invisible. However, when she finished, his eyes were able to lock on her again. He looked at her as though it was the first time he had seen her, that same disbelief reflected in his gaze.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice sounding hoarse and tired.

Claire sighed. She had no answer for this question either. What she knew was that she felt like she was buying a ticket to Hell for this. Donna had been dead only a few hours and here she was comforting her murderer. As wrong as it seemed, though, she could not get herself to stop.

"Someone has to take care of you." And she was probably the resident expert on drunks. Maybe that was why she helped him. It felt like home.

"But you…I…"

Claire put a finger to his lips. "No more talking. Go to sleep."

She went back to the bathroom briefly in order to dump the contents of his bottle in the sink. Afterwards she headed to the door without another look at Tig. She had done far too much.

"Stay."

Stopping, Claire turned to face him. She looked at him as though he were crazy, which of course he might have been, its power amplified by the alcohol pumping throughout his body. She thought to turn him down as soon as he said it but when she met his gaze again, the words became caught, nearly choking her. Something about him was stopping her. Instead of leaving, she could only find herself being drawn closer, like a moth to the flame.

She sat near him on the bed, watching him curiously. "What do you want from me, Tig?"

He shook his head, looking away from her a moment. Claire waited for him to say something but as time passed on, she knew she was waiting for the impossible.

Claire could not resist touching him again. Her hand moved forward, brushing against his cheek. He looked at her and for one moment she thought he might lash out at her but her hand remained where it was. Tig watched her cautiously, unsure of her intent. So was she.

And then it hit her, the words she needed to say. They were strange words, things that she could not wrap her head around, her tongue uncertain of how to pronounce them. But despite everything that had happened, she knew it was right. Somehow she knew.

"It's okay," she whispered, her tone forgiving and sympathetic.

Tig visibly relaxed, closing his eyes and leaning against her hand. He slowly moved forward, resting his head on her lap. Claire did nothing to stop him. She placed her hand gently on his head as his own gripped her knee tightly, each a source of comfort for the other in a strange way. And there they stayed for a long time, even well after he had fallen asleep.

Claire knew then that even if she wanted to leave, she could not. She had signed her deal with the devil.

Let her be damned with them.

* * *

><p>Not really sure where Tig actually lives so I just chose the easy route. And don't worry, normal Tig will be back next chapter. I hope none of ya'll think he was OOC, but if so, don't be afraid to point it out.<p>

Umm…I really don't have anything else to say this chapter except that I still hold the belief that Kozik is alive. :D

Cheers!


End file.
